Around The World
by sara-cupcaked
Summary: It's not where you're at that matters, it's who you're with. GSR, written for Geek Fiction's Food Fight Ficathon.


**A/N:** Big shout out to Keegan Elizabeth for being my beta on this one – you're the best beta one could ever ask for. Much thanks to my French experts, Elialys and Peppermintbag. Thank you so much guys! I wrote this months ago, and my muse wasn't all angsty then. Just keep that in mind :) This was written for Geek Fiction's Food Fight Ficathon entry, and my prompts were Hot Fudge, Deep Fried Eggplant and Spicy Cashew Chicken.

Disclaimer: If I owned CSI, it'll be renamed The Grissom And Sara Show.

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**Travel The World**

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It had clearly been used a lot – the dark blue cover was covered in tiny cracks, and the gold lettering was faded. She could still read it easily though, the eight letters that were literally the gateway to exotic locations.

PASSPORT.

Eight letters that held countless possibilities.

Tokyo, Provence, Côte d'Ivoire, London, Bellagio (the real one), Hong Kong.

She was seated on his cool parquet floor, the drawer in front of her open. She had found his passport by mistake; she was actually looking for his Lord Byron anthology. She ran her fingers across the embossed lettering, admiring the weathered feel.

She flipped through the passport, stopping at each page to take in the different stamps. Some were green (Singapore), red (France), purple (France) and black (Canada). Some countries had fancy looking sticker stamps that had words like 'temporary permit, section 11 of Act No. 13 of 1988' printed on them (South Africa).

Somewhere in her old house, she remembered owning a pocket atlas that was as worn as Grissom's passport – pages marked with red ink (must see, dream holiday destination), countries she wanted to see highlighted in yellow, and cities she needed to visit highlighted in green.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself sipping coffee by the Eiffel Tower with Grissom trying to speak to a waiter in his halting French, or watching a lion up close on a jeep somewhere in the bushes with Grissom whispering to her about some rare African beetle.

But then she stopped herself, because she was happy just sitting here in Vegas, flipping through his passport. With a smile she closed the passport and placed it back into the drawer, shutting it gently.

--

"Are you reading what I think you're reading?" he asked incredulously as he exited the bedroom, freshly showered.

"What?" she asked, looking up from 'Foods From Around The World'.

"Sara Sidle, reading a recipe book?"

She rolled her eyes playfully and buried her head back into the book.

He walked over to her and sat down next to her, glancing at the open page.

"Deep-fried eggplant. A vegetable that has been cultivated in southern and eastern Asia since prehistory," he read off the page.

"You should know, I bet they serve them in Southeast Asia, right?"

"Some sources say that the eggplant originated from Malaya and not from India. So I'm sure it's eaten in Southeast Asia," he said, avoiding her question.

"Malaya, the old name for Malaysia."

He nodded.

She paused, closing the book.

"How's Singapore like?"

"It's warm. Beautiful. Clean. Not too many bugs though," he added ruefully. "How do you know I've been to Singapore?"

"Passport," she admitted, grinning at him. "I found it by accident."

"Ah. But why are you going through my old recipe book?"

"Some say the best part of traveling is trying the food. I might not have been to Malaysia or anywhere in the Southeast Asian region, but if I've tried the food, I'm that much closer. All I have to do is learn to cook."

"Let's go then."

"Hmmm?"

"Whole Foods."

"Hungry?" she asked, confused.

"It's the only place I know that sells organic eggplant."

If one could radiate happiness, Grissom was positive that even those living in Southeast Asia could feel her bright smile.

--

"This looks really good," he said happily as he surveyed the dinner table, two hours later.

"Cooking is tiring," she said, sinking down into the chair. "I'm never cooking ever again."

Deep-fried eggplant, mango salad, spicy cashew 'chicken' (Sara had replaced the chicken with tofu, so everything was both organic and vegetarian) and rice were laid on the table, the foods' fragrant aroma wafting around his apartment.

"You do know that spicy cashew chicken is an American invention, right?" he asked, pouring Chinese tea into two cups.

"Gil, this is my fantasy tonight. Don't ruin it."

"Yes, dear."

They ate in silence, with Grissom wondering if the mango salad was supposed to be _this_ sour. Opposite him, he had a feeling Sara felt the same by the way her eyes crinkled at the corners as she bit into the delicate strands.

"Have you been to Thailand?" she gasped after draining her cup.

"Mmhm," he replied, spearing a tomato with his fork. "But this is my first time trying a mango salad."

"Why'd you go there?"

"_Velutinodorcus Velutinus. _A beetle only found in Thailand, rare."

"How is the country in general?"

"Very humid. And the food was mostly spicy and sour. They have incredible temples, though."

"It's the only country in Southeast Asia that has never been colonized," she said, wincing occasionally as she finished her salad.

"I never realized you knew so much about Southeast Asia…" he commented while gathering their empty plates.

"I blame my parents. On my sixth birthday, I got a world map plastered to my bedroom wall. My cabinet covered most of the map, and I woke up every morning to the sight of Australia and Southeast Asia." she said, laughing.

They spent the rest of the evening finishing the 'exotic' dishes, with Sara poking the eggplant with her fork ("Why does it look so soft, Gil? It didn't look like this in the recipe book…") to Grissom persuading her to try it eventually ("Sara, it's an authentic experience. Imagine being in a tiny restaurant by the sea somewhere in Malaysia.") to her going for third helpings ("Have you considered opening a restaurant?")

"The eggplant was to die for," she said, snuggling in his arms on the couch after loading the dishwasher.

"I liked the tofu," he said, playing with her hair absentmindedly.

"Like you said, that dish isn't even Southeast Asian. But it was fun, thank you," she said sincerely, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"You're welcome," he replied, inhaling the scent of her hair – the sweet, safe scent of passion fruit. "We forgot about dessert, Sara," he murmured sleepily.

"I didn't."

She got up from his lap and flashed him a quick smile before disappearing into the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later and placed a jar of honey and a metal bowl onto the counter.

"Whipped cream and hot fudge," she explained, gesturing to the bowl. "Tonight was Southeast Asian, I'm thinking of French tomorrow. How about kick starting it with some French dessert, tonight?"

He frowned, not because she wanted to continue this around-the-world-in-eighty-dishes thing (he found her behavior very endearing), but because he couldn't remember a French dessert that called for honey, whipped cream and hot fudge.

"Crème fouettée, miel et sauce au chocolat chaud," she answered, as fluently as she could with her high school French.

He nodded. This was elementary, simple-enough-to-understand French.

She dipped her finger in the bowl, bringing out a fudge-and-cream-coated finger.

"Dans le lit," she breathed, licking her finger clean.

His eyes widened, and he understood.

--

The next morning, he roused to the sight of Sara who was deep in concentration as she stared at the ceiling as if the meaning of life was etched onto it.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She turned to him and smiled.

"I didn't know you were awake. I was thinking about the world."

He didn't speak, and so she continued.

"I've realized that it's not where I am that matters, but who I'm with. I don't need to be in France to experience romance," she laughed as the red blush crept up on his cheeks. "I don't need a passport to see the world," she said, beaming.

"Je t'ai toi."

"I have you," he translated, reaching out to touch her hair, the individual strands drenched gold by the bright morning sun.

--

**A/N2**: "dans le lit" is French for "in the bed". Excuse the blatant pimping for my country, Malaysia. If you ever think of visiting, I'll be glad you take you to a little restaurant by the sea to enjoy some deep fried eggplant :)  
Thanks for reading!


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